


A Study in Lace

by KarlyAnne



Series: The Unintentional Crafts of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crafty!Sherlock, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Lace, Lace Panties, Love, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 03, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Smut, Tiny Lacy Panties, arts and crafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlyAnne/pseuds/KarlyAnne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you suppose he was doing that?”</p>
<p>“Why do I suppose who was doing what?”</p>
<p>“The room. The lace. The secrecy. He was playing with fire in everything he did, and didn’t care one bit. But he had a secret chamber, carefully concealed, solely for the purpose of making lace lingerie. Obviously for personal use. Why?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Lace

**Author's Note:**

> It all started rather innocently. Well… I wouldn’t say “innocently.”  
>   
> [phoenixdaisy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixdaisy) commented on CWB’s wonderful [All the Flavours, Cherry and More](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3957373), and noted that there weren’t enough Crafty!Sherlock fics out there. I thought this could be a fun idea for a oneshot.  
>   
> It all accumulated to this:  
>   
> <https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/YP2WFGM>  
>   
> A humorous poll by CWB and yours truly, to see which prompt would win the hearts of the readers to become a Crafty!Sherlock fic.  
> However, readers’ response exceeded our expectations, and we received so many great ideas that we saw no choice but to make this into a series.  
> And most important: the people have spoken and thus this series is going to be co-written by both CWB and KarlyAnne. Each individual piece will be written by one of us (and most likely edited by the other). Who knows, maybe at some point we’ll collaborate on the same story. The sky’s the limit.
> 
> This series will consist of “slice of life” ficlets and will not follow a linear timeline, but all fics will adhere to the same universe and thus will not contradict each other. They will always work in harmony.
> 
> This is an ongoing series, so please feel free to keep voting and prompting!
> 
> The first fic in this series was decided to be the craft that was trending when we uploaded the poll. 
> 
> This first fic is written by KarlyAnne, and edited by CWB. Who made it much, much better. (When CWB edited this, she actually deleted this last sentence due to her misplaced modesty, but I put it back in, because it’s true. Ha.)  
> The next fic will be a role reversal – CWB will do the writing, KarlyAnne the editing.
> 
> This was also beta'd by the illustrious PurpleHairedTree, because one cannot read too many books, drink too much coffee, or have too many people going over one's fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! We certainly are!

 

John stands with his hands crossed and his head slightly tilted, forehead creased, looking askance at Sherlock.

Years of cohabitation with his outlandish flatmate did nothing to elucidate these situations. Nor did months of sharing his bed.

When Sherlock was like this, a human-sized whirlwind overtaking a crime scene, there was no dependable way to determine precisely which way things were headed.

“This makes no sense…” Three skips to the left.

“Why… why… this?” Three and a half spins in place.

“No… can’t be.” Short sprint to the other side of the room.

They were currently in the house of a key person, in a high profile case, almost ready to be wrapped up. Sherlock had already figured it out, and the entire thing was as good as done. This person, while being a minor crook and an altogether average bloke, had obtained some crucial information regarding the case. This information, along with all the work orchestrated by Sherlock, and mediocrely executed by the Met – at least according to Sherlock – would be more than enough to bring this case to its resolution.

But Sherlock.

Sherlock loves the spectacle, the room full of astonished faces.

Most of all, he loves John’s mumbled praise, the utter adoration in his eyes, and the fact that now, instead of collapsing at the end of a hectic case, he gets to take John home and make love to him for all the hours he couldn’t while working.

So Sherlock stormed that house, a relentless army of one, the Met at his heels, dashed around as if possessed, until he stopped with a flourish, and declared, with every last bit of dramatic capability he still had after a week of virtually no sleep, that…

_There was a secret room._

A room that, no doubt, according to Sherlock, held more key evidence, central to this case. After all, no one was ever found _not guilty_ by reason of too much evidence.

So Sherlock knocked on walls, moved art and furniture, and eventually located the entrance to that secret room. The good officers were kind enough to open the offending door and let Sherlock in.

He wasted not a moment, marched right inside, and… went paler than he already was.

John observed this and went straight into doctor mode, ready to offer any medical assistance that might be needed. It sure looked like it would be needed.

And now, Sherlock is twirling around in the little room, talking to himself. John cautiously advances towards the door to the room and peers inside, but the room consists of nothing that could be considered “evidence” or relevant to this case in any capacity.

Instead, it houses many delicate devices and tools. John has a faint memory, of a room similar to this, in his grandmother's house. While never being much into crafts himself, he remembers slipping into the room and looking at threads, needles, hooks and sewing machines, and wondering at the magic of unassuming objects coming together to create something new.

But John would've recognized the purpose of this room immediately, even if not aided by his childhood memories, as every surface in the room is covered with lace. Different fabrics and threads, dozens of different shades, some of it still unassembled, but some of it… made into an impressive selection of tiny, dainty panties.

The owner of this room evidently took great care and pleasure in the making of the undergarments, and took tremendous pride in his collection.

One wall of the room was covered with a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

He wants to laugh, he truly does – this amusing mistake will have no bearing on the case, and after all the fuss, this really was quite the ridiculous outcome – but he knows better.

While seemingly having considerable reserves of condescension and venom, his git of a flatmate, his beautiful madman, has an easily bruised ego. Especially if John is the one doing the bruising. So John keeps his mouth shut, his expression as kind as he can manage, and waits it out.

Even the Yarders know better than to antagonize Sherlock now – all more than ready to finish this and go home – and everybody makes a swift finalization of whatever it is they are supposed to be doing, and exits the house.

The cab ride home is quiet, Sherlock looking out his window, John still not saying anything, his hand warm and solid on Sherlock’s thigh.

When they get home they go about their evening routine quietly, and finally settle in bed. And John, John who spent years carefully studying every nuance of his peculiar companion, decides to not go for a deep kiss or send wandering hands under Sherlock’s pyjamas. Instead, he gathers the fatigued detective to his chest and holds him until he falls asleep.

 

The next morning John wakes well rested and hungry, and lazily walks to the kitchen to start his morning ritual by turning the kettle on.

The kitchen table still features regularly in Sherlock’s variety of experiments, but is now more of a secondary location.

After sharing a bed for some time, John realized that he really had no further use for his old bedroom. He understood that all that he had in his room, all it stood for – privacy, independence, a new life – was a stage leading to what he had now: intimacy, partnership, love.

Sherlock never asked about John’s old room. So John offered.

And thus now, John yawns and stretches in their kitchen, and plays – for the millionth time – _Guess the Source of the Noise Emanating from My Old Bedroom_.

At the moment, John has to admit, not a lot of noise was pouring down the stairs. But despite the lack of tumult, there is the distinct buzz of busy doing.

As a rule, John doesn’t bother Sherlock while on his scientific endeavours. He knows that whether necessary for The Work or not, Sherlock needs those pursuits. Just like John needs to write.

After standing idle in the kitchen for a while, indulgently absorbing the morning, he hears the upstairs door open and Sherlock’s descent down the steps.

Sherlock enters the kitchen and comes to stand behind John, wraps his arms around him and inhales his morning scent directly from his jugular.

“Are you making me breakfast?”

“I am. Go wash your hands of whatever abominable thing they were touching just before you came in here and touched me.”

He turns and kisses Sherlock’s jaw, and opens the fridge.

“Actually, they are particularly clean this morning.”

Sherlock looks at John frying eggs from his place at the kitchen table and waits for him to put two plates in front of their seats and some toast between them.

John smiles and bravely ventures, “Case all done?”

“Yes. Lestrade called. They have all they need. Everyone is in custody.”

“Good. That’s good.”

They sit and eat their breakfast quietly for a while before Sherlock speaks.

“Why do you suppose he was doing that?”

“Why do I suppose who was doing what?”

“The room. The lace. The secrecy. He was playing with fire in everything he did, and didn’t care one bit. But he had a secret chamber, carefully concealed, solely for the purpose of making lace lingerie. Obviously for personal use. Why?"

“People like different things. They like to explore sides of themselves that they don’t get to live on a regular basis. When done correctly it’s a healthy outlet.”

“And the secrecy?”

“Some people don’t feel comfortable sharing their inclinations, innocent as they may be. He had an image. He was trying to portray a certain type of masculinity. One which, to him, didn’t go hand-in-hand with lace.”

“How… pointless.”

“That might be, but he wasn’t wrong in assuming how others might react if they found out. He wasn’t associated with the finest of folks.”

Sherlock seems pensive but not very troubled, so John patiently eats his breakfast, occasionally looking at Sherlock contemplatively munching at his toast, and he smiles to himself.

 

The week goes on as usual; John works three shifts, there is one straightforward case, the usual takeaway is consumed, and it is the most blissful of domestic bliss.

After the case that week, while going through their laundry, John wonders what Sherlock might've rolled in while at the crime scene, that made shimmery threads stick to his vest. He makes a mental note to send Sherlock's suite to be dry cleaned, just in case.

 

A couple of days later, John gets home from his third shift of the week and walks into their living room.

His chair, Sherlock’s chair, the couch, are covered in a substantial collection of tiny lacy panties. And in the middle stands Sherlock, in nothing but the tiniest G-sting of the finest silvery lace, taut material in a tantalizing pattern hugging two well-defined hips and disappearing between the plump swells of the arse John has come to know up-close and personal.

John’s mouth feels simultaneously flooded with saliva and completely dry.

“What in god's name are you doing?” He really had no intention of sounding so accusatory – after all, he was more than okay with the sight.

“Ah, John, welcome home.”

"What are you wearing, Sherlock?”

“Panties, made entirely out of lace. By me, obviously.”

“Yes, I can see that. Why?”

John swallows and feels himself start to sweat a little.

An expression of _"why must you always inquire about the obvious"_ manifests on Sherlock's face.

"An experiment, John.”

Sherlock turns to his chair and bends forward to look for something, providing John with a sumptuous eyeful in the process.

“Ah, just what I was looking for.”

With no further warning, Sherlock slips his thumbs into the hem of his G-string and pulls it down, then swiftly dons a pair of form-hugging lacy boxers, in a cornflower blue colour that complements his eyes perfectly, if John does say so himself.

John just stands there. Mesmerized.

“Where was this other one… Ah, there.”

Sherlock picks up another pair off of John's chair and makes a show of wiggling out of the one he’s wearing, then slides the new one sinfully, slowly all the way up.

This pair is just as delicate as the others, all black, sheer lace, entirely see-through. Sherlock turns around and looks at John, the very picture of innocence, cock straining against the tight material.

John wipes his expression away with his palm and says, "Sherlock, if you do not stop this, right now, I'll rip those panties off you, and have you on this very couch."

John makes an intentful step toward Sherlock.

An eyebrow is cocked in his direction.

He takes another step.

One Consulting Tease’s hand comes to flutter over a lacy seam.

John grabs Sherlock by his waist and topples him onto the couch.

Sherlock, having landed on his back, on a lace-covered surface, raises himself on both elbows, opens his legs wide and gives John a smirk of utter cheek and challenge.

John does not need a verbal invitation and lunges straight for Sherlock's abdomen, enthusiastically licking his way down. Reaching the trim of Sherlock's lacy panties does not slow John's determined mouth for even a moment, and he plunges right down to suck at Sherlock's erection through the sheer fabric.

"God, Sherlock, your cock looks amazing in these."

"I know... keep going."

When Sherlock is reduced to incoherent vocalizations, when he is an attractive shade of flush, when he is panting, and thrusting, and his face takes on that expression of intense pleasure and urgency, John pulls off.

Before Sherlock has a chance to utter one word of indignation, John looks at him and murmurs, "God, I hope these weren't expensive to make," then grabs a handful of the fabric, and rips Sherlock's panties off in one clean movement. 

John dives down for Sherlock’s penis as if he hasn’t seen said penis in an age. It doesn’t matter really. It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done it, or will. John will never tire of feeling Sherlock’s heavy corporeality in his mouth, will never get enough of the work of muscles beneath him, Sherlock’s presence all around him.

He takes Sherlock in, as deep as he can, sucking with growing fervor, aiding the process with his left hand, right hand holding onto Sherlock’s hipbone.

In their versatile lovemaking they often take pleasure in the charged anticipation for reciprocation.

Today isn’t one of these days for John.

Not taking the slightest pause in his ministrations, he undoes the button of his jeans using one hand, then shoves that very same hand deep into his pants, grunting his relief around Sherlock’s cock.

John keeps on sucking and working himself, lost in Sherlock and sensory input, racing rapidly towards his release, when Sherlock arches his back and moans obscenely.

“John… gonna… now… it’s now.”

With Sherlock’s hot ejaculate spurting in his mouth, John has a split second to contemplate how utterly turned on he is by all this, and comes with remarkable intensity over couch and lace.

Some minutes later they lie silently on the couch, limbs intertwined, catching their breath.

“I… I needed to know.”

“I know, love. I’m all too happy to assist.”

“Is it strange? This need to explore things you never knew you might want?”

“No, I think it’s… good. It’s easy to mock, you know. People with different tastes. But if you might enjoy something, something harmless, which can be pleasurable, why not try it?”

“You think I only enjoy the moments when my intellect shines brightest, but I do also enjoy these rare occasions when you have substance to contribute to a discussion.”

“Shut up, you arse.”

They giggle for a moment.

Then John draws his finger on the contour of Sherlock’s face.

“Anything else you want to try?”

“I might. I guess time will tell. I think you might find out I’m quite the crafty man.”

“Oh, love, don't I know it...”

 


End file.
